I don’t remember passing out, but when I wake up in a room dominated by white walls, an industrial gray floor, and the scent of antiseptic, I know I must have lost consciousness.

I jerk up in the hospital bed, my head swiveling from side to side. Bad move. The thumping gets worse, and so does my fuzzy vision.

But through the haze, I make out another bed lying empty a half-dozen feet away from mine.

Where is he? Thoughts of Lachlan being dragged away by strangers play like a nightmare through my brain. I have to find him.

Leads are attached to my chest, and I rip them off. The steady beeping of the equipment shrieks with an alarm.

I’m still attached to an IV, but I tear off the tape and prepare to yank it out. The door flies open, and a woman I’ve never seen before enters.

“Stop. You rip that out and we’ll just have to put another in. He insisted we not take any chances with you. Overkill all the way, in my opinion, but I’m not the boss.”

“Where is he?” My fingers grip the tubing like I’m a psych patient with a knife to my wrist. “Tell me, or I’ll have this out before you can take another step.”

Her head jerks back at the vehemence of my threat. “Docs are with him now, patching him up. No need to tear yourself apart and get him pissed at me because of it.”

My hand goes limp.

“Patching him up? How bad is it?” I remember the tear in his shirt and the blood pumping from the hole in his side. “What happened? Where am I?”

My memories are even more shattered than the night I got drunk in Dublin. The night I danced with Lachlan in a pub.

She responds to my questions out of order. “You’re in the clinic in the compound. We’re self-sufficient here. Mount was shot, a through-and-through. You’ve got a hell of a concussion on top of superficial cuts, bruising, and a decent-sized laceration on your right side. You were lucky it wasn’t deeper. Didn’t need sutures, just Dermabond. We cleaned you up and ran a bunch of tests. You’re going to be just fine.”

I look down at the blue hospital scrubs I’m wearing as though I can see through them. “Cuts and bruises and a concussion? Shouldn’t that hurt more?”

The woman, who I now assume is either a doctor or a nurse, laughs. “Honey, you’re doped up on enough painkillers that you should be feeling like a champ. Just . . . don’t rip the IV out. It’s messy. We’ve cleaned up plenty of blood already today.”

Enough about me.

“How long until he’s back? How bad was the gunshot? He’s going to be okay, right? He said he’d be okay. He promised.”

She studies me like I’m some kind of wild creature, and right now, that’s exactly what I feel like.

“He lost a hell of a lot more blood than you did. Didn’t even bother to try and stop the bleeding, and he knows better than that.”

My foggy memory recalls him giving me his jacket to stop my bleeding. Possibly at the expense of his own life.

“He’s not going to die.” It’s not a question. It can’t be, because I’ll lose it.

But the nurse or doctor, or whoever the hell she is, agrees. “No. You’re right. He’s not going to die. He’s too damn stubborn. Even the devil would send him right back.”

A tiny sliver of relief works its way into the panic crushing my chest.

“You’re sure?”

She gives me a nod. “He’s got a couple overqualified docs working on him. Only the best for Mount. But the stubborn ass wouldn’t let them touch him until they were done treating you.”

“What?” My voice breaks.

“He pulled a gun on them and everything.”

That sounds exactly like the man I know and love.

Wait.

Love?

The word crashes through my brain like the bullet that apparently shattered the windshield of the car.

Is that even . . . possible?

I slump back on the bed, my strength sapped, and she comes closer.

“Are you okay, Ms. Kilgore?”

Am I okay?

I don’t know how to answer. Right now, I’m grappling with the most shocking—but obvious—realization of my life.

I’m falling in love with Lachlan Mount.

Scratch that. Not falling. I’ve fallen.

“Ms. Kilgore? Is something wrong? Are you in pain?”

I shake my head. “It’s not that. I’m . . . it’s just . . .”

Her eyes turn sympathetic. “Delayed shock?”

“Maybe.” The pillow cradles my head as I stare up at the ceiling and come to terms with the truth.

I’ve heard traumatic experiences can have a very crystalizing effect on your thoughts, but how could I have missed that this was building beneath the surface?

“Dance with me, Lachlan. Dance with me in Dublin.”

His smile from that night flashes through my brain. Is that when it happened? Does it matter?

“Let me reattach these leads so we can keep an eye on you. I’m pretty sure he’d literally kill me if I let anything happen to you now.”

She tapes my IV back down and then moves toward the machine, straightening out the tangled leads I ripped off before reattaching them to me, but I’m not paying attention to her at all.

Which is probably why I miss whatever else she adds to the mix pumping through my IV until she speaks.

“You need to rest,” she says as she removes the bag that was hanging there.

“What did you do?”

“Just gave you a little something to help keep you comfortable.”

My eyes grow heavy and I open my mouth to protest, but I’m no match for whatever drugs she sent pumping through me.

“He’ll be here when you wake up.”